


Going Fishing

by orangeangora



Category: The Wolf of Wall Street (2013)
Genre: Angst and Humor, FBI, Gen, Wall Street
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-05
Updated: 2014-03-05
Packaged: 2018-01-14 14:50:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1270522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orangeangora/pseuds/orangeangora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a beautiful day.  The yacht is ready.  Let the games begin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Going Fishing

Rule Number One in my line of work. Whatever you do, don't underestimate your target.

Especially, wealthy, cocky young a-holes like Jordan Belfort.

"None of them will talk," my partner said, after finishing conducting the first round of interviews with the Wolf Pack, as we'd dubbed them.

"Oh they will," I promised. "We just have to keep at it."

'One of them ate my donut," he said. "I mean I wasn't going to eat the rest anyway, but...Did you know, the guy has his dad working for him? His dad? Who's apparently cool with the drugs and the office orgies. What kind of family is this?"

"We've got surveillance on the dad, too, right?"

"Right, but he's a dead end. All he does is hang out at home and watch TV with the wife. Gets pretty steamed if you call him in the evening, but nope. He doesn't seem to be involved in any of his kid's shenanigans."

"He could be useful, though," I mused. "Down the line, when we've dug up something that will stick."

"So what's our next step?"

Our next step, was paying a home visit to Mr. Belfort. Or more accurately, a visit to his yacht. Man that thing was huge. Obscene really. He'd parked his helicopter on the top deck. Subtlety is not this kid's forte.

He's not alone. Two buxom babes are lounging nearby. Belfort introduces us. It's obvious that they aren't there to discuss stock options. We turn the conversation back to where it's supposed to be.

He's good. As we sit in the sun, Belfort starts talking about how it steams him that people like teachers and - oh yeah, FBI agents don't get paid the way they deserve. Then he starts talking about how he's an outsider - yeah right - because in the old money Waspy Wall Street world, Stratton Oakmont is considered a cheeky upstart.

Well, he got the cheeky part right. Because after I politely agree, or at least don't disagree, the conversation becomes personal.

"You wanted to be a stockbroker at one point, didn't you?" he says.

Without realizing it, I stiffen. My father wanted me to. Not me. 

But I force myself to act calm. I shrug, half wishing I'd taken Jordan up on something to drink. It would be nice to have something to occupy my hands.

This bit of information into my past, as much as it knocked me for a (temporary) loop, seems to please Jordan, like he's discovered a major clue to my character. Maybe he thinks that I failed the exam, that becoming an FBI agent was my backup choice, the one I had to settle for. If he does, he couldn't be more wrong, but I don't speak up to correct him.

The waves slap against the boat's hull. Above us, a pair of seagulls squawk as they dip down to investigate the lavish buffet spread out nearby.

And then Jordan says something so colossally dumb that I have to fight to keep my jaw from dropping. It's a real WTF moment, as my daughter would put it. Did that guy really just say what I thought he did? But he did.

Of course, I'm not wearing a wire. Because while I know that this guy is cocky and thinks he's immune, part of me still didn't expect this. You never quite think that a suspect will do something this stupid - until he actually does.

"Could you say that again?" I manage. "Because if I didn't know any better, I would have thought that you just tried to bribe me."

I can tell from Jordan's face that he realizes that he's made a huge error. But he recovers impressively fast. "That would be illegal."

"Indeed it would, Mr. Belfort," I reply and wait. Your move. 

Abruptly, he rises, which is actually fine with me - I'm starting to feel the familiar pressure on my left temple that usually signals a tension headache. When I decline (again) to sample any of the delicacies that someone has prepared for my partner and me, he launches into a tantrum that would put my younger daughter's (who's two and a half) to shame. As we walk up the dock, he takes a fist sized roll of bills out and starts throwing them in our direction. We ignore him. But when something harder smacks me in the back, I do turn around, just in time to see something orange and scaly clatter to the ground nearby.

A lobster? Really.

In a way, it's a fitting end to the interview.

He's king of the world, while I (and my colleagues) are just schmucks in cheap suits who ride the subway to and from work. Which actually suits me fine.

Good. Just keep on thinking that.

End


End file.
